


came to town like a midwinter storm

by mariuscourf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Small Towns, and so much banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 18:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30026133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariuscourf/pseuds/mariuscourf
Summary: New folks don't move to town that often. It's not too surprising that when it happens, Grantaire's thrown for a loop.But did he really have to be thrown for this big a loop?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 46





	came to town like a midwinter storm

“Musain Café, Grantaire here.”

“Sorry, I was trying to reach Grand Opening–”

Grantaire sighed, because he got this question every single time a new person came into town. “When we tried to take the Grand Opening sign down, one of the owner’s boyfriends fell and broke his collarbone and three ribs and so we never got around to it. Now it’s been up for so long that people think that’s our name.”

He could sense silent judgement coming from the other end of the landline. “How long have you been open?”

“Four years? Five?” 

The man on the phone scoffed.

“Hey, we can’t take it down now, it’s too icy,” Grantaire said.

“You’ve been open for four or five years.”

“Listen, do you want to order, or are you going to just criticize our business practices,– because I barely work here and honestly don’t care about anything, so you can probably find better people to complain to. So, can I get you food? A drink? Some Xanax, or whatever the chill pill of your choice?”

“Are you offering me drugs? Do you sell drugs?” His voice rose with concern at the end.

“Fucking Christ dude, pot is already legal here; are you trying to imply that this is a front?”

Musichetta glanced over from the kitchen. “Language!”

“Are you a tourist?” Grantaire asked. “Because it’s not tourist season.”

“R, you can’t interrogate customers,” Musichetta sighed.

“I live here,” the man on the phone said.

Grantaire snorted. “Since when?”

“ _R_!”

“Today,” phone guy said confidently. “I just got here from New Orleans.” Grantaire laughed; poor new guy had no idea what he was in for.

“Welcome to town,” Grantaire laughed. “But seriously, why are you calling, because we don’t sell snowshoes here. Or uh, snow tires. Or,” he covered up the the phone receiver with the heel of his hand, “Chetta, what would someone need if they just moved here–” 

“R, what did I tell you about harassing the customers?”

“–from Louisiana,” Grantaire finished, and even Musichetta doubled over in laughter.

“Sautéed green beans and vegetable fried rice,” the man on the phone cut in.

“ _Get back to work_ ,” Musichetta hissed. Grantaire gave her a salute and picked the landline back up.

“Pickup or delivery?” Grantaire asked.

“Delivery.”

Grantaire jotted down the address and card number. “See ya soon.” He hung up, and sauntered back to Musichetta. “His place is on my way home.”

“Fine, you don’t have to come back after,” Musichetta said.

Grantaire kissed her on the cheek. “Love you. Tell Joly and Boss I love them too.”

Musichetta shook her head. “You’re lucky I like you.”

  
  


New Guy lived about a mile down the road from the restaurant, closer into town. It was in the complete opposite direction of Grantaire’s house, but what Musichetta didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Probably.

He was shouting, and Grantaire could hear bits through the door– something about voting systems. Grantaire rang the doorbell.

“Welcome to the land of ranked choice, baby.” Grantaire started, but holy _shit_ , New Guy. A mess of blond hair stared at him, looking uncomfortable in red sweatpants, like he wasn’t used to dressing so casually. 

“Ranked choice?” New guy raked a hand through his hair. “Who are you?”

“Ranked choice voting–”

“Were you _listening_ to me?”

“I’m Grantaire,” Grantaire smirked. “Chinese delivery man extraordinaire.”

“Enjolras.” New Guy extended a hand.

“Gesundheit.”

Enjolras cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not one to talk.”

He had a point. “Welcome to town, Enjolras,” Grantaire said.

“Thanks,” Enjolras scowled. Maybe his face was just stuck in a permanent scowl– Grantaire could see it. “So you _were_ listening to me.”

“You have a lot of thoughts about voting systems–”

“– _do you not?_ ” Enjolras shrieked.

Grantaire shrugged, not really listening as Enjolras kept talking– something or other about direct democracy, the electoral college, and how in the hell Abe Lincoln was elected. Behind him, Grantaire could see cardboard boxes littering the floor and newspaper strewn everywhere– most likely used instead of bubble wrap, but Grantaire could totally see this guy tacking up articles to the wall and connecting them with red string. “…and that’s what could happen if we get more states to adapt ranked-choice.”

“Who’s this _we_?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras sighed and pulled some cash out of his pockets, handing it over.

Grantaire fanned himself with the money. “You have lots of ones.” He also had the face and body for having a lot of ones, but Grantaire at least had enough common sense to keep that thought to himself.

“Are you trying to imply that this is a front?” Enjolras asked, and it took a moment for Grantaire to register that those were his words. Clever.

“En–enjoy your fried rice,” Grantaire stammered.

Now was the part where he should leave. Take his tip money and get back in his old pickup. Drive home, and not daydream about customers– well, _customer_. A customer who just moved straight into a New England winter from the south of all places: seriously, dude had no idea what he was in for. A customer who seemingly loved hearing the sound of his own voice, based off the little Grantaire had talked to him and volume Enjolras had said in return.

“Is there anything else?” Enjolras asked.

“What?”

“You’re standing in the cold,” Enjolras said.

“Oh, are you inviting me in?” Grantaire flirted back automatically. “I’m, uh, gonna go.”

Enjolras nodded. “Enjoy your night.”

If Grantaire painted nothing but blond curls and newspaper-strewn floors when he got home that night, it was nobody’s business but his.

  
  


“Musain Café, Grantaire here.” It was a slow Sunday, and most of Grantaire’s friends were hanging around the restaurant because really, what else was there to do?

“You still have the grand opening sign up.”

 _Enjolras_.

“Listen, I barely work here. Take it up with someone else.” Grantaire was fidgeting with the landline, twisting it around his fingers. Musichetta gave him a look.

“You said that last time.”

“It remains true.”

“You answer the phones a lot for someone who barely works there,” Enjolras said. There he was, as argumentative as Grantaire remembered.

“Is two is a lot now?”

“I– sautéed green beans and vegetable fried rice, please,” Enjolras said.

“Pickup or delivery?” 

“Delivery.”

“What, afraid to drive in the snow?” Grantaire snickered. 

“Obviously not,” Enjolras huffed.

“Hmm. Sure.” Grantaire grinned. “See you in twenty.” He hung up the phone, and turned to Combeferre. “Hey, can you say that thing about math and all voting systems being fucked up again?”

Combeferre looked at him quizzically. “Voting systems have come up a lot this week.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Voters gotta vote, or whatever. C’mon, I need it to piss off a hot guy.”

“What hot guy?” Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

“His delivery crush!” Joly chimed in. Grantaire glared. “New guy, moved to town last week, Bossuet heard from Courfeyrac heard from Marius that he’s just out of law school, working at the firm downtown starting next week.”

“I met him at the co-op, he was standing outside trying to get people to sign his petition to run for selectman,” Bossuet said, walking out of the kitchen, hot pink hair net over his bald head.

“He’s been here for what, four days?” Grantaire asked. “Four days and he already wants to be on the town council.”

Bossuet shrugged. “There’s been an open position for three months.”

“Small town politics, man,” Grantaire sighed. “Okay. Combeferre. For real, can you explain the voting thing in a way that I can fit on a takeout container?”

  
  


In the end, Grantaire just went with _we’re all fucked, there is no good solution, go look up arrow’s theorem or something smart like that_. Because as much as he wanted to fight with Enjolras on the side of some vegetable fried rice, he wasn’t about to learn math for it.

No one was shouting loudly about politics this time, so that was something.

He rang the doorbell. “Delivery for Enjolras!”

No red sweats this time, but the scowl was still there, and- fucking hell, was that a clipboard? Did he carry a clipboard around in his own home? Maybe it was a Pavlovian thing, like he was so used to going door-to-door with clipboards that the ring of a doorbell just made him automatically pick one up. Maybe he was just weird. Maybe he was just hot. Maybe Grantaire should talk to his therapist sometime about why this in particular was so hot. 

“I’m running to be this town’s next selectman,” Enjolras started, because saying _hi_ was overrated, Grantaire supposed? “In the short time I’ve been here, I believe we can make a difference by–”

“You’ve been here for four days,” Grantaire said.

“Four days, and look at how much I’ve already accomplished.”

Grantaire looked around. “Sorry, have there been sweeping legislative changes I’m not aware of?” As if he was aware of _any_ sweeping legislative changes.

“The accessible parking spaces at the co-op are now inclusive of pregnancies.”

“Cosette mentioned something about that a few months ago, you reminding her to actually put out the signs isn't a sweeping change,” Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“It’s a start,” Enjolras said, frustrated.

Grantaire shook his head. “Look at you, trying to be Jon Fishman.”

Enjolras stared blankly.

“The drummer from Phish?”

“The animal?”

Was he born under a rock, or did Grantaire just have a very specific set of pop culture references? “The _band_ , the fuck kind of music do you listen to in Louisiana?”

“Jazz,” Enjolras said. “Should I, err, check them out?”

Grantaire shook his head _no_. “Honestly, I’ve never been into them, I’m not _that_ much of a stoner.” Enjolras rolled his eyes at that. 

“What does he have to do with this?” Enjolras asked.

“He’s a selectman a few towns over,” Grantaire explained. “Are you gonna ask me to sign your petition, or do you just cradle clipboards like newborns on the regular?”

Enjolras huffed and held out the clipboard. “You’re holding babies wrong.”

“I’ll trade you,” Grantaire said, handing him the paper bag of food.

In the four days he had been around, Enjolras already had a decent amount of signatures on his petition to run for selectman, including the two men currently on the town council– Valjean and Mabeuf– which all but guaranteed he would get elected. Grantaire pulled a Sharpie out of his coat pocket and signed.

“There’s a pen attached to the clipboard,” Enjolras remarked.

Grantaire twirled his marker around. “Yeah, but this one’s glittery.”

“Is that–” Enjolras squinted at the page– “your phone number?”

“You know, in case you want to call me to get food not delivered to you.”

Enjolras smiled and handed over a tip. “See you around.”

 _See you around._ Were there a better three words in the English language? 

  
  


_from: unknown number_

_I know Arrow’s Theorem._

_Just because there’s no “mathematically perfect” way of voting doesn’t mean we can’t fight to make the system more just._

Next to the yogurt cup of paint water on the table, Grantaire’s phone began to Rickroll him, since Courfeyrac changed his ringtone last month and he didn’t know how to switch it back. It was probably Eponine, she said she was going to bug him about babysitting later. He put his brush down on the paint-splattered table (it was definitely a design choice and not at all just him being too lazy to bust out newspaper) and glanced over, and–

Holy shit, that was definitely not Eponine. What was an acceptable amount of time to wait before texting back? When did he start thinking like a high schooler with a crush?

Fuck it. He saved Enjolras’s contact and replied.

_to: sautéed green beans vegetable fried rice_

_did u read math to fight me_

_sorry, to fight the system_

Enjolras didn’t respond immediately, which Grantaire took to be a sign that Enjolras hated him and never wanted to speak to him again. He tossed his phone back on the table, cranked up the volume on his boombox, and went back to painting.

An eternity went by as he filled in the sky behind the Musain on his canvas, skies stretching out into the waters of Penobscot Bay. Musichetta had been trying to commission a painting of the restaurant for ages, but like hell he was taking her money. He was detailing Ursa Minor when his phone buzzed again– wait, was Enjolras calling him? Why would Enjolras be calling him?

“R here,” he said as he picked up.

“Is that how you answer the phone now?” Eponine snorted.

“Oh. Hi,” Grantaire sighed.

“Thought I was gonna be a certain blond?”

News travels fast in this town.

“No, definitely not, why would you think that.”

“Are you worrying that you’ll miss his text if you’re on the phone with me?” Eponine asked.

“No,” Grantaire lied.

Eponine sighed. “When I drop Gavroche and Azelma off tomorrow, can you at least pretend to not be this desperate?”

“Maybe.” His phone buzzed again. “Gotta go, ‘Ponine.”

“Jesus Christ.”

_from: sautéed green beans vegetable fried rice_

  1. _Learning math to fight the system is not an inherently bad thing._



_1a. (More than happy to share my thoughts on the state of the US public education system if you want to talk more about this)_

  1. _Coincidentally, a friend explained Arrow’s Theorem to me earlier this week. No math learning to “fight you” required._



He numbered his text messages.

Grantaire was fucked.

  
  


Tuesday was trash day for Grantaire. Well, every day was trash day for Grantaire, he was sort of a trash being, but the transfer station was only open twice a week.

“Fucking small towns,” he muttered. A familiar head of blond hair was standing in front of a dumpster, bundled in a new-looking puffy coat. “Need some help?” Grantaire called out from his car.

“No,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire parked and stepped out. “Not used to being your own garbage man, huh?”

“Not delivering food and harassing customers today?” Enjolras asked.

“I told you, I–”

“Barely work there,” Enjolras said with him. “What does that mean, precisely?”

“Look at you, wanting to be _precise_ ,” Grantaire waggled his eyebrows. “Sorry, no, that was supposed to be a euphemism for something, but even I don’t know what.”

“Look at _you_ , evading the question.”

“Okay, lawyer.”

“I still have to pass the Maine bar,” Enjolras said.

“Excuse me: Okay, almost-lawyer.”

“Are you ever going to answer, or should I get comfortable standing in the cold?” It was a warm day by winter standards. Enjolras, bundled up under a puffy coat and knitted scarf, was shivering a bit. There was no way he was going to be able to stand outside for much longer.

“I’m an artist,” Grantaire explained.

Enjolras nodded hesitantly, like Grantaire was a kid bringing home macaroni art.

“No really, I have shit in one of the galleries downtown.”

“You don’t need to be defensive,” Enjolras said.

“Eh, defensiveness is just my natural resting state. So. You had trash pickup in New Orleans, right?”

“Of course,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire snorted. “ _Of course_. Listen, when I lived in a city, trash pickup was a _big_ deal.”

“Are you from here?”

“Not here-here, but here-ish,” Grantaire gestured in the direction he thought was generally more inland– despite spending all but five years of his life living in the area, he still had zero sense of direction. “Moved Boston for a bit, but I missed the transfer station too much.”

Enjolras looked around. The dump was empty except for the two of them and a town worker sitting near the front.

“I’m kidding,” Grantaire said.

“Why did you move back?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire shook his head. “Nope. I’ve done enough talking about myself to last the next three years.”

Enjolras nodded. Trash bags are still in his gloved hands, and Grantaire gives them a glance. “Need help?”

“I don’t need help,” Enjolras asserted with the unearned confidence of someone who has never lived somewhere this rural before, but hey, nothing can be harder than the big city, right?

“Suit yourself.” Grantaire grabbed his own trash and recycling bags from the bed of his truck and tossed them into the respective bins. Enjolras struggled, but got his bags in as well. “You’re a real country guy now,” Grantaire laughed. “Mazel tov.”

Enjolras grinned. “Until I get on town council and–”

“Nope, don’t even think it, we’re too rural,” Grantaire said. Fuckin’ big-city optimists. 

“You never know.”

  
  
  


_from: scary boss lady ;)_

_Your boy called in an order._

_to: scary boss lady ;)_

_okay_

_from: scary boss lady ;)_

_Aren’t you going to drive in and bring it over?_

_to: scary boss lady ;)_

_tell marius I love him but not that much_

_from: scary boss lady ;)_

_Not that boy._

_Sautéed green beans and fried rice_

_to: scary boss lady ;)_

_omw_

Sometimes it rained in the winter, melting the snow enough for steam and fog to cover the road, freezing into slick ice. On days like that, Grantaire usually holed up in his house, wrapped in layers of blankets, sometimes painting, sometimes just marathoning old Star Trek DVDs. Musichetta knows better than to expect him in the restaurant– the perks of “barely working” somewhere. But well, Enjolras. He could barely see where he was driving, but Grantaire had been around these roads enough time, he could do it with his eyes closed. Hopefully. Eventually, he made it to Enjolras’s doorstep, only almost-swerving off the roads twice.

“You drove in this?” Enjolras asked when he answered the door, looking incredulous.

“Nah, I walked into town all the way from Plumet Hill,” Grantaire said. “Delivery.”

Enjolras poked his head out. “You can see through this?”

“Nah.”

He frowned. “Want to come in until the fog clears?”

Was that a real offer? Was Enjolras really inviting him inside? “Um, yeah,” Grantaire nodded. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Enjolras’s house is smaller than Grantaire expected, newspapers still strewn around everywhere. Books and clothes littered the floor. Grantaire wouldn’t have expected Enjolras’s place to be such a disaster, but he loves it.

“The fog’s probably not going to clear until morning,” Grantaire blurted out, and Enjolras’s face blanched. “I can make it home, seriously, it’s okay, if you don’t want me hanging around.”

“I don’t mind having you around,” Enjolras said. _I don’t mind you_. Coming from him, it’s a compliment. “Err, do you want some Chinese food?”

“I already ate,” Grantaire shook his head. “Hot pockets. Dinner of champions.” 

“Dinner of drunk college sophomores,” Enjolras said.

“Hey, if you cook them in an air fryer, it’s almost a real meal!” Grantaire insisted, pulling out a chair and sitting at Enjolras’s cramped kitchen table. Filled-in practice bar exams cover the whole surface, and Enjolras plopped the takeout bag on top of them.

“Sure it is.”

Grantaire laughed and picked up an exam. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re really– moving from the big city, living out here, taking the Maine bar, running for city council…” Grantaire waved his hand. “All this.”

“ _What’s that supposed to mean_?” Enjolras put his fork down. 

“I’m from here,” Grantaire sighed. “I love it here, all my friends are here, and there’s a weirdly hopping art community. But you, and all your change the world BS–”

“It’s not BS,” Enjolras snapped.

“Semantics. You, and all your change the world stuff, and– what are you doing here, Enjolras?”

“I heard there was good Chinese food.”

“You’ve tried two things off our menu.”

“ _Semantics_ ,” Enjolras smirked. “I– my best friend from undergrad said I would like it here, that I’ve been working nonstop forever and needed to slow down, and– I’m not slowing down, not by any means, but– I can affect change here; I can make a difference.”

Damn, this boy needed a break. “Wait, are you Combeferre’s Enjolras?”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “How many Enjolrases do you think there are?”

Grantaire shrugged. (He had found five with a quick google search, but wasn’t about to admit that.) “He talks about you a lot.”

“And it took you this long to piece together.”

The Enjolras from Combeferre’s college stories seemed more fragile, more human. Accidentally sitting in on the wrong class for three months and not noticing until his real professor emailed asking what was up. Setting off his dorm fire alarm one a day for a week– two as a protest of something and other, and five from leaving his iron plugged in for too long. Getting a stick and poke, sitting on the floor of a dorm room (Combeferre had a moth on his ankle, Grantaire had asked about it once during the world’s most uneventful game of strip poker, in which Combeferre only ended up stripping off his socks). Taking six shots of 5-Hour Energy and– well, Combeferre had never told Grantaire the end of that story, but he could only imagine.

The Enjolras sitting in front of him seemed invincible– cold weather aside– like some sort of hot fighter for justice. Then again, Grantaire was getting a pretty limited point of view.

“You haven’t given off the vibe– at least, to me– you haven’t seemed on the edge of a nervous, burnt-out breakdown,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras grimaced. “Is that how Combeferre described me?”

“Um. In a more polite way?”

Enjolras sighed. “I’m not on the edge of a burnt-out nervous breakdown.”

“Not currently.”

“Not currently, no,” Enjolras said. “Hey, there are lots of other things we can talk about.”

“Oh yeah?”

“After all, I’m sure you want to hear my thoughts on why congress should be expanded.”

“That– oh boy, this is gonna be a long night–”

They ended up arguing for hours. Then it was still foggy, so they fought some more, and then it was still _still_ foggy. “Err, do you want to watch something?” Enjolras asked.

“Are you going to suggest a Ken Burns documentary?” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Or just PBS in general?”

“I- hey, I was going to say Star Trek.”

Grantaire perked up. “Which series?”

“I’m halfway through Voyager right now.”

And that’s how Grantaire ended up sitting on the edge of Enjolras’s bed, watching Tom Paris’s holodeck adventure of the week, then Tom Paris’s holodeck adventure of the next week, and then it was two in the morning.

“Shit, it’s late– if you want me to, I can leave, really–”

“Stay,” Enjolras said. “It’s too foggy to drive.”

The more they continued on like this, the more it seemed like they were just going to burst into singing _Baby It’s Cold Outside_ , in some sort of seasonally inappropriate, non-creepy way. Who was Grantaire to argue with outdated holiday songs? (Also, his dick. His dick very much wanted him to stay, even if his mind was insisting there was no way in hell Enjolras would be interested in so much as even glancing in his direction.)

“If you insist.” Grantaire slid to the top of Enjolras’s bed, the air thick with tension and awkwardness, or maybe that was just the fog from outside seeping in.

“Is this okay?” Enjolras reached around Grantaire’s shoulder and tilted his head in, forehead touching Grantaire’s.

“So much okay. More than okay. You have no idea–” Grantaire was cut off by Enjolras’s lips brushing against his own, melting against his touch.

The rain outside was still going strong, pitter-pattering in tune with the pounding of Grantaire’s heart against his ribcage. Enjolras’s hands found the side of his face, fingertips tracing down until they braced against Grantaire’s hips, kisses deepening as Grantaire took pleasure in how Enjolras’s hands reached up under his ratty, bleach-stained shirt (really, Grantaire couldn’t have at least tried to make himself semi-presentable instead of racing over?), exploring the soft skin of his chest, until they inched back down and entwined with Grantaire’s on top the flannel sheets.

The fog from outside clouded against the window as they kissed, and _damn_ , Enjolras could kiss, softly biting into Grantaire’s lower lip, tongue floating in his mouth like the most natural thing in the world.

Grantaire tugged on the edge of Enjolras’s shirt. “Can I–” and before he could even finish the sentence, Enjolras had leaned back and tossed it to the side.

“Yes,” he laughed.

They kissed for minutes, hours, years, hands roaming, limbs intertwined. Enjolras’s breath caught in his throat as he pressed the heel of his hand against Grantaire’s cock, which was threatening to burst out of his jeans.

“Fuck me,” Grantaire whispered. “I want you to fuck me.”

Enjolras moved to start unbuttoning his khakis. “I can do that,” he said, swinging one knee around to the other side of Grantaire and pressing him down into the mattress, mouth moving to Grantaire’s lips, neck, chest…

“Merry Christmas?” Enjolras fingered the hem of Grantaire’s boxers– fuck, they were covered in cartoon Santa-hat clad raccoons, why had Grantaire not put on nice underwear for this– did he even own nice underwear?

“I, uh, they’re comfy,” Grantaire stammered. “And clean.” That in itself was a small miracle. Enjolras pressed a kiss to the waistband.

“We can change that,” he whispered, tugging them down and moving his lips closer and closer to Grantaire’s cock. Grantaire trembled, hands grabbing into the bedsheets as Enjolras licked up his shaft. “Ready?”

Pants discarded, boxers thrown aside, Enjolras grabbed a condom from the bedside table, fumbling with the wrapper.

“Looks like you’re not so good at everything after all,” Grantaire said smugly.

“I never claimed to be good at everything,” Enjolras corrected. “Got it– _fuck_ , what are these wrappers made of?”

“Lemme try,” Grantaire laughed. It had been a while since he had ripped open a condom wrapper– too long, he thought, but he got it open on his first try. Enjolras’s breath hitched as Grantaire leaned down, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock– Jesus Christ, _his cock_ , had Grantaire ever seen anything so beautiful in his life– and his hips lifted as Grantaire rolled the condom down.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras growled. He reached to the bedside table, squirted lube into his hand, and moved down to Grantaire’s ass, easing a finger inside, prodding him open.

“Fuck, Enjolras,” Grantaire moaned as he felt another finger, curling in towards him.

“Okay?” Enjolras asked, and Grantaire had never nodded so hard in his life.

“Please, please–” he wasn’t the begging type by any means, but looking up at Enjolras’s face brought out a part of him he didn’t know was there.

Enjolras smirked and grabbed more lube. “If you say so,” and then his cock was sinking into Grantaire, slow and thick, filling him up.

“ _Fuck_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire moaned, arching his back, letting Enjolras thrust deeper. “You…” he trailed off, losing his thought as Enjolras slowed down, strokes longer and slower. All thoughts left his head completely as Enjolras brought a hand between them, fingers wrapping around Grantaire’s cock. “Please,” Grantaire panted. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, Enjolras, more…” 

Enjolras sped up, finding a rhythm, moving until Grantaire was bucking underneath him, coming so hard he could barely see. Enjolras shuddered as he came, quickly after. “R– Grantaire,” he cried, and Grantaire had never heard his name said like that before, and didn’t think he would ever be able to hear it again without thinking of it coming off Enjolras’s lips.

Grantaire quit smoking after college, but that– that was cigarette-after-sex worthy. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?” Enjolras asked.

“Mmm,” he mumbled, falling asleep next to Enjolras, curled against his chest.

  
  


Grantaire woke up with the sun streaming in, and for a moment he couldn’t tell if it was from the east-facing window or the man next to him, sitting up and buried in the local paper. Meaning he got up at some point to fetch it, and then crawled back into bed with Grantaire? That couldn’t be right; Grantaire just assumed that anyone who had ever been both emotionally vulnerable with him and saw him naked would be halfway to the Canadian border by now. (Then again, the Canadian border wasn’t too far, maybe Enjolras was just catching up on news before fleeing.)

“Morning,” Grantaire mumbled, more to the newspaper than to Enjolras.

“Good morning.” Enjolras said, far too formally for someone who was inside Grantaire hours prior. “I have to head into work soon.” There it was.

“Fun.”

“It will be,” Enjolras smiled. “It’s election day.”

Oh, _fuck_. “Was this your grand plan to secure my vote?” Grantaire joked. He hoped he was joking, at least.

“Grantaire, it’s an uncontested election.”

“I know, which makes the whole thing even more suspicious,” Grantaire sat up.

“I’ll, uh, call you later?” Enjolras said.

Sure he would.

Grantaire phoned Eponine once he got back to his car, Enjolras having sent him off with no more than a “be careful, it’s icy,” as if Grantaire hadn’t been driving in New England winters his entire life.

“You’re living in a bad porno,” Eponine cackled. “The delivery man and the politician?”

“Being on town council doesn’t count as being a politician!” Grantaire protested. “Enjolras is probably against politicians or whatever. As a concept.”

“Whatever,” Eponine said. “It’s still hilarious. To me, not you, sorry dude.”

“I’m glad my misery is so amusing.” Grantaire sighed. “See you tonight?”

“Only if your adult film career doesn’t take off and you leave town.”

“Hey,” Grantaire said.

“Did he give you a big tip?”

“ _Eponine_!”

  
  


Musichetta closed the Musain for election day. “So people can go vote,” she said.

“It’s an emergency election with one candidate running. In March,” Grantaire pointed out.

“Hey! We’re fulfilling our civic duties!” Joly protested, and then turned to Grantaire. “She wanted a day off,” he fake-whispered. 

Grantaire lifted up his pint glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Somewhere across the bar, Enjolras was arguing with the town’s self-appointed head volunteer firefighter– _“the slogan ‘only you can prevent forest fires’ is incorrect, it takes all the blame off of corporations and puts it on the individual, here are my suggestions…”_

“Stop looking over there,” Eponine poked him.

“Who’s up for shots?” Bahorel materialized, holding a tray.

“Baz, it’s a weeknight,” Cosette said.

“So?”

“You teach second grade.”

“So?”

“You’re teaching second grade _tomorrow morning_ ,” Feuilly shook his hand but grabbed one anyway. “R?”

“I’m good,” Grantaire said. He wasn’t staring across the bar, definitely not watching Valjean interrupt his firefighting husband and say something to Enjolras that Grantaire couldn’t quite make out.

“Attention everyone,” Valjean cleared his throat, and everyone turned to face him. “Announcing our town’s next selectman: Enjolras!”

The bar cheered. “This comes as such a shock,” Enjolras joked. “I would like to thank the town for being so welcoming and accepting me so readily…”

Grantaire watched as Enjolras searched the crowd– looking for Combeferre, probably. Or maybe just looking around, after all Enjolras had only been in town a few weeks and it was quite possible he hadn’t yet been to the Corinth. He was still talking– at least, Grantaire was still fixated on how his lips were moving– but all Grantaire could hear was a vague word about calling in the future, and then everyone was clapping and congratulating and really, why did Grantaire fuck him, in a town _this small_?

“Hi.”

Grantaire choked on his beer. Enjolras was standing in front of him. “Congrats, next Jon Fishman.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said.

“You’re well on your way to taking over the state of Maine, and then the country,” he joked.

“I’m against career politicians,” Enjolras shook his head. “For now, I can affect change here.”

Grantaire bit his lip to stop himself from blurting out the first thing to pop into his head, which was _you sure affected some change last night_ , because, well. Obvious reasons.

“And, err, I– that change can involve you.” Was Enjolras seriously telling Grantaire whatever grand town council plans he had?

“Well yeah, I’m a part of the town. What is it, a better library system–”

“This town _doesn’t even have its own library_ –”

“–higher salaries for teachers, more ice for the roads, what?” After this conversation, Grantaire was going to go home. Curl up with a beer and Star Trek– oh fuck, he couldn’t watch Star Trek without thinking of Enjolras now– uh, curl up with a beer and whatever show wouldn’t remind him of Enjolras? Text Eponine. Redownload all the apps and set his distance settings to way out of town.

“You. I’m asking you out, Grantaire.”

He choked on his beer again, which is what he gets for continuously sipping. “You’re _what_?”

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes, and all Grantaire could think about is how he was the one doing that less than twenty four hours ago. “I’m asking you out. Did I get the wrong idea about–”

“Nope,” Grantaire said. “Uh, definitely not the wrong idea.”

“Is that a yes?” 

Grantaire should have tried to play it cool, but his smile was practically cracking open his face, if not opening a rift throughout all of New England. “Yeah, you can buy me dinner tomorrow. I’m free the night after that, too. Probably the rest of the month.”

“Sounds good to me,” Enjolras squeezed his hand. “I just– please tell me there’s another place to eat in town?”

“Good places open year round?” It was really just the Musain, the Corinth if you wanted the slim selection of pub food, or grabbing a sandwich at the co-op. “We can drive out a bit.”

“You’re driving,” Enjolras said.

“Right, I bet it’s too icy for you,” Grantaire joked and Enjolras’s cheeks turned red. “Shit, it actually is?”

“Shut up, I’m on the board of selectmen now, you can’t say I don’t belong here anymore.

Grantaire put down his drink and gripped Enjolras’s shoulder. “You belong here.”

In town council, in town, in Grantaire’s bed– all of the above. Enjolras belonged with him.

**Author's Note:**

> In keeping with the trend of Enjolras running for public office in northern New England, here’s a fic where he gets on the Board of Selectmen (small town New England’s version of a town council.)  
> Thank you thank you thank you to Bread for beta-ing! Love you so much.  
> Speaking of people I love, join the [Hoes for Enjolras](https://discord.com/invite/vERrqvA) on Discord if you want to make fun of the title of this fic.  
> Comments/kudos/etc always appreciated!


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